The Last of the Guard
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: *Roy plans to join the prestigious guard that protects the Queen family, but fate has other plans in store.* An AU that uses a Three Musketeers dynamic between characters. Not historical, though. Complete.


**Title: The Last of the Guard  
Word Count: 3012**

**Notes:** This is for MysteriousTwinkie, who probably thought I'd never do this. It stems from a conversation we had one night at midnight, and we discussed similarities between Arrow and The Three Musketeers (and of course there are glaring similarities at midnight :P). Since the idea was contrived at a God-awful hour, you'd expect it to be crack!fic, but it's not. It's not a crossover, but more of a plot line and dynamic between characters. **This is a one-shot, and there won't be any continuation.** Please let me know what you thought if you have the time, but, if not, thanks for reading this. :)

* * *

Roy takes a deep breath as he steps off the bus and onto the sidewalk in front of Verdant, which, according to the friendly bus driver, is one of the best clubs and drinking establishments in town. The building is all windows, so he has to shield his eyes against the sun glaring against the mirrored glass. He can hardly believe his luck—he's wanted to come here ever since he was a kid, and now he finally has.

Though they had lived on the outskirts of Starling City, his father had been part of the esteemed Green Arrow Guard. The Guard serves the most powerful family in Starling: the Queens, and has for generations. The Queens are powerful people with powerful enemies, so they hire a private security detail that could rival most dictators of the world. They're known for their elite tactics and unyielding loyalty, and Roy grew up on stories of his father's work with the Guard.

Well, he did until _that_ day happened, when he watched as the man in the two-toned mask killed his father. The man had been quick to temper—and merciless. Both of Roy's parents were slaughtered, and no one knew by whom. What Roy did know, however, was that he managed to take one of the man's fallen swords and slash his face with it. No doubt the man has a nasty scar even now, ten years later. The cops had immediately shipped him off to a foster home in Central City, but now he's eighteen and free to pursue his dreams.

He finally enters the bar, admiring the high ceilings and large, open space in front of the bar. He's surprised to see it's a bar now; back in his father's time, the Guard headquarters was below the Queen Manufacturing Plant, which also protected it from theft and vandalism in the heart of the Glades. It looks nice for a club, he thinks—modern yet keeping in the style of the old factory with steel beams.

"We're closed," a voice calls out to him, and then a head of brown, curly hair pops up from behind the bar. Her back is to him, so he can't see her face, but he does admire her figure and the nearly backless blouse she wears.

"Sorry," Roy calls to her, walking up to the bar. "I didn't mean to intrude, but I'm looking for the Guard headquarters." He sits on a red stool at the bar, pulling the hood of his red jacket from his head. He drapes his arms across the bar lazily and waits for her response.

He doesn't have to wait long. She turns immediately, and he realizes he's carrying on a conversation with none other than Thea Queen, heiress to the Queen family fortune. She's more beautiful in person than in the tabloids, he thinks, with the way her hair falls in dark tresses around her face. Her eyes are piercing as she says flatly, "You want into the Guard." She says it sarcastically, as if it's laughable that _he_ could ever be a part of something so important.

"Yes, I do," he asserts, pulling himself up to full height, back straight. "My father was in the Guard." He doesn't say anything else, just meeting her eyes with intensity.

Thea frowns at him after a long moment, then huffs loudly before pointing over her shoulder to the doorway. "They're in the back. Try not to get yourself killed."

Roy walks to the doorway, but he can't resist turning back and winking at her. "Glad you see you're so concerned," he replies, and before she can do anything other than gape at him, he goes through the door backwards.

He turns around on the stairs and finds himself in a dark, dimly lit area that resembles a dungeon in a fairytale. It's very industrial in design, with a metal staircase, concrete walls, and steel beams reaching to hold up the ceiling. The exercise equipment is top-notch in the massive room, with a few desks and weapons cases scattered around. An impressive set of computers sits on a desk in the middle of the room, and something that resembles a ladder without rungs sitting off in the distance.

Once he finally steps foot on the concrete floor, he can make out a few figures standing around. Off in the corner, a blonde girl spars with a bald man easily twice her size, and Roy watches him correct her stance and movements a few times. But, closer, he recognizes a man methodically studying each of a batch of newly minted arrows—a man he recognizes to be none other than Oliver Queen.

Oliver Queen is a mystery to the media, Roy has learned in the last few years. Instead of choosing to live his life as a rich, powerful member of the Queen family, about five years ago he chose to join the Green Arrow Guard, to everyone's surprise and confusion—though it was then known as the Queen's Guard. Originally, their symbol had been a "Q" crossed with an arrow, and Oliver apparently took that to heart, working his way through the ranks as an impressive archer. Since their uniforms had always been green leather—camouflage more suited to the dense forest the Queen mansion had once sat in—the media took to calling it the Green Arrow Guard after Oliver's choice of weaponry, and the name just stuck.

Roy isn't sure what to do—he can't just go up and demand attention from Oliver _Queen_, of all people—so he just stands there, observing. After a particularly tense bout, the blonde stops and elbows the larger man, whispering something in his ear. He immediately turns in Roy's direction, and the two walk toward him. "Do you have business here?" the blonde asks, sounding tougher than she looks. She's putting her contacts in a case and exchanging them for a pair of black and amber glasses. Her lipstick is a bit much, Roy can't help but think; that fuchsia is so bright it practically glows in the dark. He notices the green metal arrow pin displayed proudly on the strap of her tank top, and he realizes this girl is probably more than she appears.

Roy thinks of popping something sarcastic off to her, but then he sees the large man's eyes studying him, and notices that Oliver's occasionally flit in his direction, though he seems completely relaxed. Perhaps being rude to this girl is not his wisest idea. "I'd like to put in my application to join the Guard," Roy says proudly, studying them all, not sure which person he should be talking to.

The blonde laughs instantly, but not in an unkind way. "Don't you watch the news?" she asks, her smile wearing no hint of humor. "The Guard is officially disbanded." At Roy's questioning glance, she explains, "You know what's going on here in Starling, right? Robert Queen is a pushover, and his new... _assistant_"—she says the word as if suggesting the relationship isn't quite business—"has quite a bit of influence over him. The Roach—that's Isabel Rochev—is pretty much using Robert as her puppet. She planted evidence showing that an Arrow killed an innocent man. The cops couldn't figure out which one of them did it, so the Arrows were ordered disbanded. And Robert is a lovesick idiot, so of course he agreed to her."

She throws a glance in the direction of the only Queen in the room. "No offense, Oliver," she offers distractedly, and Roy thinks he can see a hint of a smile ghost across Oliver's mouth before it disappears.

Roy points out the glaring contradiction. "But obviously you're still here." He shifts his backpack full of possessions on his shoulder as he shrugs.

The blonde mirrors the action, her ponytail swinging. "Well, we _are_ disbanded—officially, anyway. But no employer in this town will hire an ex-Arrow—we could be murderers, you know." She crosses her arms. "I got evicted from my apartment because I couldn't pay the rent. Digg's house was foreclosed on. We live here, and Oliver's nice enough to keep us in food. There's no Green Arrow Guard anymore, kid—it's just another Starling City fairytale now." She and the bigger man both turn away from him, as if to go back to sparring.

Roy can't stop the words that burst out of him. "But what about Isabel?" he asks, and they all stop. He considers that permission to continue. "Are you just going to let her win?"

The bigger man turns back to him, studying Roy again. "What did you say your name was?" he asks as he crosses his arms.

Roy stands his ground, though the man is intimidating. "Roy Harper," he answers flatly. He can see the recognition in the larger man's eyes, the fondness of Roy's father shining through in a half-smile.

"Your father was a good man," he responds after a long moment, "a good Guard. He was killed by Isabel's pet—you know that, don't you?"

Roy draws a breath. "Then you _have_ to let me help you," he demands. "My father was killed defending me. I know his killer should have a scar over his left eye—that's where I wounded him with his own sword."

Finally, the statue that is Oliver Queen rises from his seat. "If you want to join the Arrows," he says in a deceptively calm, quiet voice, "you'll have to earn it. But if you're willing to help us stop Isabel, we're not too proud to admit we need help."

The other two take Oliver's leadership without hesitation—with all the loyalty one would expect from the Guard. "I'm Felicity Smoak," the blonde offers with a shrug. "This is John Diggle," she says, nodding toward him with a flick of her head, "but most of us call him Diggle or Digg." She rolls her eyes. "And of course you know who Oliver is."

"Get him a uniform," Oliver demands, and Diggle turns to do just that. "Training starts tonight, Harper."

* * *

Roy feels his muscles burning from the exertion, even though he's sitting down at a table in the VIP section of Verdant. He groans as he shifts in his seat, and he notices a smile spread across both Felicity and Digg's faces. Roy turns toward the blonde. "Why don't you have to endure this kind of torture?" he demands of her.

Felicity crosses her arms. "Because I'm not a barbarian," she replies simply. "I was hired for my brains, not my brawn."

"And what can _you_ do?" he asks, frustrated now by the pain causing his muscles to throb.

Felicity offers him a smile that's a little sinister—enough that it scares him. "I can tell you that you're a lousy student—a 1.85 GPA wasn't enough to graduate, was it?" Roy starts at the information. "But you were a troublemaker," she continues casually, sipping on an imported beer, "and so the principal fudged a few records—completely unethical, by the way—so that you wouldn't be his problem anymore. You liked to fight—which is a nice quality in an Arrow, but not really something you want in a teenager who used to build shanks in shop class."

"How could you possibly know all of that?" Roy asks this time, impressed. Not a detail of her story was off the mark, and he wonders quickly if she's not the most dangerous of them all.

Her smile is more genuine this time—and much less vindictive. "I told you—brains"—she taps her forehead—"not brawn. If it's on the Internet, I can find it."

"How did you get involved in the Arrows, though?" Roy can't help but wonder. He's already learned that Felicity is the most forthright of the group. Diggle is a closed book, sure, but Oliver is just an enigma who spends more time brooding and kicking Roy's ass gleefully than anything else.

Felicity smiles fondly—the one that she seems to reserve exclusively for Oliver. What she sees in the moody billionaire Roy will never understand, but he's seen some of the intense looks the two share—and he knows that looks like that just aren't purely platonic. "Oliver found me," she says quietly, so low Roy can barely hear her over the club music. Louder, she continues, "I was working in IT at Queen Consolidated, and I offered a little technical assistance every now and again for the Arrows."

She props her elbows on the table, taking a moment to wave at Oliver, who is drinking alone, before situating her head on top of her hands. "In the meantime, a friend of mine OD'd on the newest drug to hit Starling at the time. It was called Vertigo, and it was manufactured by this guy they called the Count. So I went after him on my own—the police wouldn't do anything about it, and the Arrows couldn't investigate. The Count managed to capture me—because I was an idiot—and Oliver came to my rescue." The nostalgic smile leaves her face for a moment. "Oliver put three arrows in him, quick as you could blink, but he still managed to shoot Oliver. It was a nasty one, but I managed to get him to the hospital before things got too ugly." She laughs, and it's genuine. "He saved my life. I saved his. And I somehow got a job offer out of the deal—go to work for the prestigious Arrows."

"And you did," Roy finishes for her.

"And I did," she agrees, "and I've never looked back since." She sighs. "Even now, I don't regret it. It's nice to be a part of something, even if the Roach did kill it all."

Diggle rolls his eyes at the name she gives their enemy. "Give it a rest, will you?" he says, but the smile on his face says he means no insult. "If you want to project your anger on someone, it should be Oliver."

Something passes between the two; it's a quiet moment where their eyes say everything. There's clearly more to the story about Isabel Rochev, but Roy doubts that asking will reveal what he needs to know. Felicity picks up the conversation, though. "I told him," she says in a hard voice to Diggle, "that what happens in Russia _stays_ in Russia. I don't care what he does, but I thought it was fair to inform him of poor life choices." She shrugs in a way that suggests she's not at all calm about the situation. "Besides, now we know Robert's safe—she's _definitely_ not a black widow, or Oliver would already be dead."

Roy blanches at the implications of their words, but before he can ask this time, a cute blonde waitress comes out of nowhere and refills their drinks—and winks at Roy. "Here you go, Smoak," she says as she takes the beer from the tray and trades it out for Felicity's now empty glass. Something flashes at the corner of Roy's vision, and his eyes land on the green arrow pin in the center of the low neckline on her blouse. Scars dance across her arms, indicating that her role is much different than Felicity's in the team.

"Thanks, Sara," Felicity replies, before tilting her head in Oliver's direction across from them. "I think Oliver could use a refill, if you'd be so inclined."

Sara nods, and Roy turns in his chair to watch Oliver interact with her. The two exchange tight-lipped smiles they both probably don't mean, but they do manage to stop and flirt for a moment. By the time Roy turns back, Felicity is much more sullen, and Diggle throws a sympathetic glance her way.

Wanting to give them a moment, Roy says, "I'll go see if Oliver needs some company."

Felicity's eyebrows narrow. "Good luck with that—he prefers to drink alone. Take some healthy advice: if he asks you to leave, you better do just that."

A nod and a few painful steps later, Roy finds himself sitting at the booth across from Oliver. "Mind if I sit here?" he asks casually, even though he's already in place.

Oliver doesn't say anything, but he also doesn't kick Roy's ass again, so he takes that as permission. He can't stand the silence, so he asks Oliver, "So, which one of them is your girlfriend—Felicity or Sara? It's hard to tell."

Oliver's eyebrows knit together menacingly. "Neither," he says flatly. Finally, he adds, "And you should do the same and enjoy a solitary life." He takes a sip of whatever he's drinking—vodka, Roy guesses—before he says quietly, "A woman can be your salvation, Roy, but she can also damn you to a fate worse than death. Love is a curse."

Roy means to let the conversation drop, but apparently Oliver is in an apparently rare talkative mood. "I learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago," he continues bitterly. "I met a woman who took my breath away. I loved her—I thought she loved me. But one night I asked her about the tattoo on her shoulder—a fleur de lis. She never answered me, so I did some research." He levels a dark look at Roy. "It turns out it's a brand the Bertinelli family gives to those who commit all of the three worst crimes—mutiny, murder, and attempt to kill the head of the family. She deceived me from the start, and I didn't hesitate to turn her in to the cops." He laughs humorlessly. "But, in a way, my betrayal was worse than hers. I joined the Arrows the next day.

"I've tried to forget about her, but I can't. I hoped that life in the Guard would kill me, but somehow I survived, and now I'm just as scarred on the outside as the inside." He chuckles humorlessly. "Helena was the lucky one, Roy—they sentenced her to death, but I have to live every day with the pain of what I've done." He casts a longing look in Felicity's direction, showing just which blonde he'd choose if given the opportunity. "But when you're damaged, you don't get a chance at redemption."


End file.
